


Preparations

by argylsocks



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels, There's just a lot of reichen okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-11
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 10:08:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/559808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argylsocks/pseuds/argylsocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before a fall, one must prepare a net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post and partially by this analysis of the finale.

All things considered, this was one of the simpler things he’d ever done. Not simple in that the average person could come up with it—goodness knows that their brains could never possibly even conceive of the thought beyond the simple idea—more so in that it lacked complexity.

Still, he supposed, it certainly ranked closer to Coventry than to a bludgeoning over the head.

No, the complexity lied within outsmarting Moriarty. And he’d done just that, foiling the freshly dead man’s attempt at a win from beyond the grave.

Afterward, it was just like falling.

And he did.

* * *

He went to Molly first, as soon as he realized that the only way the situation would end was with him dead and Moriarty at least mildly inconvenienced. Silly girl, trying to capture his attentions for years now. She was like John, able to take a teasing. At least that was what he’d thought before Christmas, when he realized how serious an offense she’d taken. That was one of the few times, the other at Baskerville, that he’d regretted saying anything.

Moriarty should’ve checked his connections better; the possibility that he had and simply dismissed her swept through his mind briefly before he decided that, yes, that was the case. He knew because he usually did the same.

Molly found him a body: John Doe, same build, same severity in the face, just slightly the wrong shade and texture of curls on his head, fresh enough. To anyone else, it would look like Sherlock; this was one of the few occasions he felt glad that most did not observe.

The hard rubber ball bounced against the floor then the cabinet opposite him before returning to his waiting hand and beginning the cycle again.

* * *

Contacting Irene was next. Their correspondence had been strained ever since settling her out of Mycroft’s—and apparently, Moriarty’s—immediate reach but he still had a favor to call in. He started rolling his hand over the ball, tapping a familiar rhythm against the table top. John, you brilliant idiot.

As much as it took any fun he could possibly have derived from the situation, it was more expedient to ask what compound she’d given him, the precise dosage for several hours of unconsciousness, whether it could be safely combined with painkillers (he’d been surprised to learn that it functioned as one itself. “Such a shame about that bit, really. I have to put more work into punishing them effectively. I suppose it’s worth it when they wake up writhing in pain though.”), when it should be administered to avoid any unwanted consequences.

Answers gathered, he gripped the ball firmly in hand before he went to hang up.

“Sherlock!”

Eyebrows furrowed, he answered. “What is it, Irene? As you can imagine, I’m rather pressed for time at the moment.”

A brief moment of silence. “Is everything okay? John treating you right?”

“Everything is fine. I’m fine,” he said solemnly. She was starting to say something else but he hung up before she could.

“Brilliant woman. Too much sentiment.”

* * *

Resting at the bottom of the stairwell leading to the roof of St. Bart’s, Sherlock bounced the ball against the floor, the wall, catching it in his hand as he thought about the execution of his fail-safe.

His double was waiting in a room near the entrance, an empty stretcher next to its prepared to wheel both to the morgue, one to be placed into cold storage, the other to wait inside a body bag under Molly’s watchful eyes.

The capsule filled with Irene’s compound rested in his left breast pocket, slightly opened for quick access.

His other breast pocket buzzed. Catching the ball in one hand, he slipped the other to retrieve his cellular, only taking his gaze off the concrete wall opposite him a few seconds later.

I’m ready to play, Sherlock. Too bad you’ve already lost.—JM

Remaining straight-faced, he sent off a short text—St. Bart’s. 8AM. Bring bicycle. Wearing blue peacoat—and checked the rubbish collection time.

Taking a rare second to prepare his mind, he gripped the ball tightly before climbing the stairwell. Tucking the ball between his side and the crook of his arm, he squeezed tightly, attempting to quell the stirrings of the heart determined to make a liar out of him.

* * *

The phone call…his note…was the only spontaneous element in his plan. Then, he’d acknowledged a small moment of fear, of weakness: if his plan didn’t work, he wouldn’t just be dead.

They would be, too.

The rubbish lorry came earlier, for once, than the listed time, forcing him to cut the note short. Beyond the rush of air as he fell, he faintly heard John’s yell. Nimbly, Sherlock rolled out the side, noting the cyclist breezing past as he swallowed the capsule and burst the blood packs—type O-positive.

As before, he became detached, aware of neither the gathering crowd nor of John’s hand around his wrist.

* * *

Moriarty had called him ordinary, an angel.

Sherlock had corrected him: just because his was on the side of the angels, it didn’t mean he was one himself.

He’d said they were similar; again, Sherlock disagreed as they shook hands.

Even Lucifer was an angel before he fell.

Sherlock never was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by another analysis, this time of the funeral.

Before today, Sherlock could only count three events during which he was caught unprepared. Moriarty was related to each of them in some way.

He supposed that this one was, too, in that the Irishman had set the gears in motion that caused his…fall. But this one, this moment of impulsive behaviour that went against all his other impulses left him, for once in his life, completely unsure how to proceed.

* * *

He found out from the cyclist that Mrs Hudson and John would be holding his funeral soon, before the week was out.

As far as he knew, they would be the only attendees. Not even Lestrade—Greg—was planning to come. Maybe Molly if she could.

He realized that before, the only things he could count on to never change were Mycroft’s dieting and being generally annoying and the countless cases. Then John came along with that cane and that limp.

He’d called him “brilliant” and “fascinating” instead of the usual “freak” he was used to hearing.

He took a cab. And the cabby’s hat.

* * *

He drove towards Baker Street, slowing to a stop in front of his flat where Mrs Hudson and John stood in their mourning clothes. Well, Mrs Hudson was.

John was wearing the same worn out jumper and trousers he was when they’d first met.

Sherlock observed quietly as they entered the back seat. Her eyes were still slightly swollen and red; had she been crying all this time? And John…

John.

His face had the same haggard appearance, cheeks drawn and resting under the dark bags under his eyes. His hair was barely kempt, cowlicks sticking up all over, and his jumper was lopsided. Judging by the smell, he had been wearing this outfit for a few days at the very least.

Mrs Hudson gave him the address of the cemetery before clucking quietly and attempting to put John, eyes shut and faintly rubbing his leg, back in order. “Now, now, John,” she said, her voice breaking and becoming wet, “every-everything will be fine. We’ll just have to get through today and keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

Her attempts at soothing his flatmate earned no response.

The rest of the cab ride passed in silence, broken only by a few sniffles here and there. Neither of them realized who he was.

After all, no one pays attention to a cabby.

They arrived at the cemetery, Mrs Hudson’s eyes a brighter red and John looking as if he would be sick. She asked him to wait; the service would only take a few minutes, he didn’t have very many friends because he was insufferable and a show-off but what he could do with his mind…

Sherlock wondered if he would regret acting on this impulse.

They were met by Lestrade and Molly, the latter managing to look convincingly grieving, at the gate.

They chatted quietly for a bit, John mostly uttering small grunts and monosyballic answers when necessary. A black town car pulled up, quieting the quartet.

Mycroft exited and spoke to his driver who then left. He turned towards the motley group, ignoring the glare John cast in his direction, and said something then offered his hand to the others.

Never had he seen a more misplaced group. None of them belonged together yet they could only exist in that manner. He wondered what that said about him, that they were his friends. And Mycroft.

They went towards the large black granite headstone; a brief spark of worry passed before he realized that Mycroft probably paid for it. Or they’d used his funds.

Yes, he would be regretting this, this entire stupid plan, for as long as he lived.

He left the cab, following a way’s back, out of sight in the thick pines that bordered this part of the cemetery. The air was on the warm side of cold; fall would be here soon.

His fall had been in August.

Squatting behind a tall slab, he peeked around it to watch his funeral. Few words were spoken from what he could tell. Molly and Mrs Hudson set down flowers. Greg’s face contorted sporadically. Mycroft came forward and briefly laid a hand on the stone; he left after giving the others a small, curt nod. John, ever the soldier, stood solidly, legs shoulders-width apart and hands clasped tightly, enough to turn the skin there stark white, in front of him. He stared stonily ahead at the grave.

Molly left second, scrubbing tears away from her face; she most likely had business at the lab. Greg followed soon after, coughing. He hugged Mrs Hudson and squeezed John’s shoulder tightly before continuing to the street.

It was another thirty minutes before they were ready to leave. She said something and left him, heading towards where Sherlock hid.

Without thinking (he realized he had stopped his ceaseless canalisation ages ago), he sprang up and ran to another headstone, within hearing range of John. Seconds later, Mrs Hudson passed by; he grabbed her arm, pulling her behind the headstone with him, and covered her mouth lightly.

“And how are you today, Mrs Hudson?” He cracked a small smile but could only hold it for a moment before it fell.

“Sh-Sherlock? Wh-How?” Realization crossed her face a moment later. “Oh, you! Do you know what he’s gone through? I-I don’t know how you’ll fix this. It’s too much this time, Sherlock. Just…too much.”

“I know, Mrs Hudson. I couldn’t resist the urge to see.”

They peered around to watch John; his stance had loosened and what he said made something deep inside Sherlock ache even more deeply.

“Just do one thing for me, okay, Sherlock? Just—just don’t be. Don’t be dead. Just do that for me, won’t you? Just. Don’t be dead.”

He closed his eyes, resigned to the regret, something he rarely felt, washing over him, drowning him, sweeping him away. Reopening them, he saw his flatmate drudging slowly, eyes down, towards the cab.

“How much longer, Sherlock?”

It took a while for him to answer; he was deciding whether to lie or to tell the truth. He went with the truth.

“I’m not sure, Mrs Hudson.” John was coming closer to them. “We should be going.”


End file.
